Free Necrophenia by Robert Rankin Page B

did. Or rather he/she did. Well, they were fearsome, those Venus Envys. Big high heels and big high hair and great big eyelashes, too. They fair scared the bejabbers out of us and I am not ashamed to say so. Because they were fearsome.
    ‘What is the “Key of La”?’ Toby asked me.
    ‘There is no such key,’ I said.
    ‘That’s what I said, but that great Amazon who’s got my bass says she’s retuning it to the “Key of La”.’
    ‘And who’s to argue at that?’ I said. ‘The Key of La it is.’
    It must have been around eleven-thirty when Venus Envy took to the area of floor that had been designated ‘the stage’. It was lucky, really, that there wasn’t a raised stage as they would certainly not have been able to stand upright if there had been. Apart from the short one. And he/she was sitting down anyway. And I couldn’t really tell which one, if any of them, was Vain Glory. But I don’t think it mattered because whoever was doing what and playing what, they were complete and utter rubbish.
    Which somewhat surprised me, I’ll tell you.
    Neil and Toby were shaking their heads. ‘I thought you said that they were famous,’ Neil shouted into my ear, ‘and that their songs had meaningful lyrics.’
    ‘That’s what it said in Teenage She-Male Today magazine.’
    ‘But not in the NME or Melody Maker,’ shouted Neil. ‘To my knowledge, and my knowledge in these matters is considerable, they have never received even a paragraph in either of these esteemed organs.’
    ‘Organs?’ I said, fearing another ****** reference.
    ‘As in organs of public information. Newspapers.’
    ‘No mention at all?’ said I.
    ‘Nix,’ shouted Neil. ‘Zilch. Nothing. Not one bit.’
    ‘How queer.’ And I shrugged.
    And eventually Venus Envy concluded their set.
    And we clapped politely. Because although clapping is uncool, getting beaten up by a bunch of giant trannies for not clapping would have been uncooler.
    Clap-clap-clap, we went.
    And Neil even whistled.
    ‘I wish Mr Ishmael was here,’ I said to Neil. ‘I feel strangely vulnerable, amongst this crowd of weirdos.’
    ‘We could just grab our gear and run.’
    ‘Do you think they would let us?’
    Neil eyed up Venus Envy and concluded, ‘They do look rather burly and “useful”, don’t they?’
    And I agreed that they did.
    But at least they were smiling.
    At us.
    ‘I think we’re on,’ said Neil. And we were.
    Toby and I were handed our guitars and did our very best to deretune the retunings.
    Neil worried at this drum kit. ‘How can anyone put a drum kit out of tune?’ he asked.
    But in a whispery voice. And close to my ear.
    ‘We’ll show them,’ I said. ‘We’ll rock the house, right?’ And I made a soul-fist at Toby, who responded with something resembling a frown. And very resembling it, too!
    ‘Are you ready to rock ’n’ roll?’ I asked Toby and Neil.
    And they made faces at me.
    ‘Are you ready to rock ’n’ roll?’ I bawled into the microphone. Eliciting some hearty attention-grabbing feedback.
    One or two winos gave me the thumbs-up with their sherry bottles and I counted in the first number.
    And then we played that rock ’n’ roll.
    Like the True Rock Gods we were.

13
    We played an absolute blinder that night.
    Even with the ropy old PA popping away and the ancient amplifiers fizzing and crackling and a variety of distortion coming out of the speakers the likes of which would not be heard again until nineteen sixty-seven, when, in the Summer of Love and hallucinogenics, everyone would be trying to capture that exact sound.
    And I was very proud of the lads – they played a professional set. Neil thrashed those drums and Toby did things to his bass guitar that were probably illegal, but certainly got a cheer from the audience.
    And it was a big audience now.
    Packed very tight. And not smelling as sweetly as did Mr Ishmael. But we had a full house for certain. They just kept packing in, brushing the snow from their